


Contact

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little schmoopy Drift/Wing for tf-rare-pairing with a side order of tactile</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact

It was disgustingly familiar to Drift: the oily black smell, the throttling pounding in his chassis, and the awareness that he was seen wherever he went.  His feet pounded down the uneven pavement, splashing through puddles of fluids and flatwash. He couldn’t say what was chasing him this time: bleeders or the Security Forces or Turmoil or…something else. He didn’t want to look and in a way, he didn’t need to know. It was enough to know it was something chasing him, wanting him dead.

Or worse.

He pulled out of it, with force, because he knew it was just a dream, a phantasm of his restless cortex, limbs flailing, one hand reaching, reflexively, for the gun that was no longer there.  The absence gave him another jolt, reminding him he was…here.

Gold optics flared in the darkness, and there was Wing, moving next to him. “May I sit?”

Drift shrugged, pushing himself up along the berth, resting his shoulders on the wall.

"Bad memory purge?" The voice was rich with sympathy.

Yeah right, like Wing would know anything about those, in his pretty, safe city. “Nothing.”

“It didn’t seem like nothing.”

Drift bristled. “Nothing you’d understand, then.”

Wing tilted his helm.  “I understand bad dreams. Mine are of when we left Cybertron. We had to leave so many behind, to face the horror of the burning world.  Or, or worse, those who arrived after we had to leave, showing up to the broken launchpad too late, feeling their hope, their future burn away inside them.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up. “I worry that they hated us in their last moments.”

“Their fault,” Drift said, simply.  A mech could lose his mind getting lost in what other’s thought.

Wing shivered, as though pulling himself free from his thoughts, and forced a smile.  "But your dreams are your business."

Drift scowled in the darkness. "Nothing. Just being chased. Hunted.  Security forces wanted me for a long time."  Kill three of their own and a mech would rocket to the top of their want list.  He shrugged. "After that, well..."  Well. How to tell about a faction thick with violence? The strong survive and the Decepticon culture made you strong, winnowing out the weak,  sparing no one.

Nightmares were the stuff of weakness.  He'd always been embarrassed by them, and he looked embarrassed now, optics fixing on his upraised knees. And he realized he’d curled himself, exactly as he’d used to, back in the gutters—that self-protective little crouch, as though trying to be as small as possible. He thrust his legs back down along the berth, almost defiant.

“After that?”

Drift snorted. “After that I had better things to deal with.” But the nightmares had continued, simply folding themselves together in a complicated knot.

"Can I touch?" Wing asked, abruptly, holding out one hand.

"Touch what?"

"You? Sometimes it helps."

He was going to say he didn't need any help, but a small part of him, that little kernel of something inside him, pushed against the words. He shrugged again. If nothing else, he certainly wasn’t afraid of Wing touching  him. "Whatever."

The smile kindled, as though that were close enough and almost the expected answer, as though Drift's scowl, his truculence, was somehow endearing. Drift had never met anyone less afraid of his temper.

Wing leaned forward, extending one hand. Drift braced for a touch, but Wing merely stirred the air over his EM field, dragging through the jagged flow of electrons, combing it down.  And then his other hand, on the other side, stroking gently down Drift's frame, in long, slow sweeps that barely touched him.

It felt...good.  Somehow comforting, somehow soothing, as though smoothing rumpled feathers.  He felt himself sigh, like a stranger's body, twisting mutely toward the touch.  And Wing did touch, then, his hands like satin over Drift's armor, tracing the lines of the armor seams, the intricate paneling. The jet’s optics followed his hands, like another layer of contact, another soft brush of awareness over Drift’s body—the complicated plating of his abdomen, the sleeker planes of his thighs. It wasn’t sexual, not really, undemanding and patient, like Wing himself.

But unlike Wing, this touch seemed to comfort him, spreading like warmth over his body, taking the last cobwebs of the memory purge, the grey sludge and the tension, from him, pushing back the memory of the gutter’s stink with Wing’s own smell, clean and sharp and bright.

WIng looked up at him, and in the darkness, his optics seemed to glimmer like flames. “I had a friend, long ago, who did this for me.”  .

Something caustic boiled in Drift’s vocalizer but dissipated, abruptly, under the gentle strokes of Wing’s fingers over his armor--his hands now, Wing’s fine swordsmech’s hands caressing the backplates of Drift’s own battered hand. It was strange to think about Wing, having nightmares, being soothed.

And now...

“He didn’t make it,” Drift guessed.  

Wing shook his head, optics dropping to study their hands, busying himself for a moment with pulling along Drift’s fingers. “No.  He didn’t.”  

Drift’s optics followed Wing’s, studying  the sleek polished fingers over his.  “Sorry.” He didn’t know quite what he was sorry for, other than making WIng hurt.

WIng moved to press one of Drift’s hands between his own.  “It was a long time ago, Drift.”  

He thought of Gasket--it had been a long time ago, too, but it still hurt, as much as he tried to bury it.  “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Wing looked up, catching Drift’s gaze, before leaning in to press a chaste kiss on Drift’s mouth. “if someone truly touches you, you never get over them,” Wing said, softly. As if he knew, already, as if he could see straight through Drift and all his ferocity. 

His optics cast a warm luster over Drift’s face, making shadows disappear, even as his words seemed to echo through Drift’s body, his history, and the moment became almost too much, too close. Drift squeezed at Wing’s hand, fiercely, grounding them both here and now, or trying to, because in Wing’s eyes he saw a kind of magnificence, a thing beyond his ability to describe, and almost to feel, and he knew that, whatever happened, Wing had touched him in that way that could bring pain and regret, but as vines from a beautiful flower with deep, powerful roots.


End file.
